Now can you understand my shock
horror and surprise at hearing my fatherís suggestion. We can only bury the
past if we promise never ever to resurrect it. Instead of a nuclear
confrontation.my mother was suddenly all in favour of me living in Dublin with
Assumpta. Her lips were restored to their former glory as she furiously plotted
my future.

As Assumpta is a radiographer in
the Mater hospital, my mother started raving about all the lovely suitable rich
doctors I could meet through her. Poor Uncle Jimmy had suddenly slid way down
the agenda. I had a choiceÖalbeit Hobsons choiceÖ. Stay in Dingle to fester
and decay or join Assumpta in the city. Stay or go ..why not play Russian
roulette. I had so desperately wanted to be in the driving seat, in charge of my
own destiny but there were forces at work much stronger than you or I could even
imagine. The die was cast as I was firmly placed on my path by the gods that be.

Tralee railway station is like a
morgue at the best of times. I plunge deeper into my duffel coat cocooning
myself against the biting wind that invariably frequents disgruntled passengers
en route to God knows where. There are no bright lights or fancy shops here to
immunise against the lonely cold wind that bores into your very soul.

The platform is littered with
subdued weekenders who appear lost in a no manís land of no real fixed abode.
I wish I had secured my ticket in advance so that I donít have to face the
woman behind the ticket desk as she barks out an extortionate price for a single
ticket to Dublin. People behind these desks are picked for their dour
unaccommodating natures. I am made to feel like a criminal before I even dispose
of my money." £30.50 " she barks as I fumble in my purse for the
extra 50p. I only have it in twos and fives. The woman at the ticket desk huffs
and puffs viciously as I try to give it to her. I notice that sheís married
with two rings practically embedded into her finger. Tightly permed hair
highlights her moon shaped face giving her the appearance of a tortured blow
-fish. I find it hard to imagine her having another life away from endless
tickets, queries and small change. Some people lend themselves to be set in
stone and she looks as if she only belongs here as a dutiful C.I.E. employee.
For someone like me with an over developed and at times a warped imagination I
canít for the life of me picture her husband. For instance where did she meet
him?

"Can I have a ticket to
Dublin and would you like to go for a drink?"

Or is he the boy next door who
knows that deep down she is a wonderful, worthwhile person. Yes I am convinced
that it was fate that got her a man But how does divine providence decide? Is it
like the lottery? She looks bitter and disgruntled so maybe fate gave her an
alcoholic or an adulterer or perhaps some man whose idea of passion and
excitement is angling.

I join a queue of passengers
shuffling their way towards a train that is so well past its sell by date that
it should be condemned. Kerry people really are too tolerant and too god damn
blasť to object to the total unfairness of it all. As I am pre menstrual I feel
melancholic about just everything and now itís the train. I turn around to hug
Edwina and to cling to the final vestiges of sisterly warmth. My throat feels
constricted and suddenly very dry as I manage to croak goodbye. Edwina hugs me
one more time, a reassuring hug that gives me some hope that somehow I will
survive.

The ticket collector only allows
me to go through which is a struggle considering my amount of luggage. Goodbye
Kerry. Adieu my past. I am now facing a whole new future full of infinite
possibilities.

I put my luggage into the shelves
before I look for a seat in the no smoking carriage. Please let me sit beside
someone normal. No psychos or nose pickers or mobile phone addicts. Ah an empty
seat at last. I sit in and scatter a few magazines to make it seem as though I
am not alone. Peace. I close my eyes and allow sleep to rescue me from
prospective demented thoughts.

I am now less aware of the
hardness of the seat and the stale smells of the many bodies that have once been
and left their mark- a damp musty smell whose layers bear witness to aeons past,
each voyager with their own history. Sleep grants me access to a labyrinth of
bitter sweet images that indiscriminately seep from the recesses of my
unconscious mind. I am floating now over the hills, caressed by golden clouds
that feel like a combination of silk and Marks and Spencerís cotton. On one
cloud I see Assumpta who beckons me to join her. I reach over and as our finger
tips touch I feel like I am coming home. Our fingers interlock like the missing
pieces of a jigsaw that I thought were lost forever. Assumpta tries to speak.
What is it? "Damien. Damien." She cries. At once the spell is broken
and gravity takes its toll. I plummet to earth with this horrible sinking
feeling .The past revisited has returned to haunt and torment me.

I wake up bleary eyed to feel two
pairs of eyes monitoring my every move. I weakly smile in polite acknowledgement
and close my eyes in the faint hope that I am still in my dream world.
Momentarily I am oblivious to the fact that I am seated opposite two nuns . As I
open my eyes once more they take this as an opportunity to quiz me.

"Are you tired dear?"
"Where have you come from?" " All the way from Dingle."
"You must be exhausted and hungry" Yeah I would be if I had to
personally walk from the town but there were nil calories expended on my part.
One talks and the other nods approvingly. Sr Claude and Sr St john have been
visiting a sister convent in Ballybunion and are now on their return journey to
Peru. My monosyllabic replies do little to deter the zealous interrogation .Sr
Claude obviously loves her own voice so the questions come thick and fast. I
feel like a prisoner in the dock awaiting sentence. Would they please shut up. I
start to feel hot and sweaty and make my excuses to go to the loo.

On the corridor the wc sign tells
me someone else had the same idea. I stand for a while feeling the countryside
rip before my eyes. A mixture of diesel and slurry assault my senses. Iíve
just remembered why I hate trains. I start to feel queasy as the train rattles
its way into Charleville station. The WC occupant makes his entrance just as the
train comes to a stand still. I donít care about the stupid rule that we canít
go while the train is at a standstill. This is an emergency so there. There is
only just enough room to manoeuvre myself into position. I hover precariously
over the toilet seat, trying to aim as best as I can while the train starts to
move again. I fall back onto a seat that is wet and squelch. All good and
conscientious mothers warn their daughters to hover as the toilet seat can
harbour every type of disease imaginable. Well S.T. D clinic here I come. The
flushing peddle works but I have to step furiously on the other one to get a
trickle of water. I use it to wash my face and end up drying it with some
scratchy loo roll. I am beginning to feel almost human again.

Sr Claude and Sr St John are in
mid picnic as I descend upon my seat. I am given no choice but to partake in
this feast. A vast mound of sandwiches is pushed before me. Ham and tomatoes
with some pickle and cress. Thereís also a mug of flasked tea which always
manages to taste synthetic and bitter. Still I am not complaining for at least
there is a verbal cease fire. I nibble slowly, painfully aware that two eyes are
soaking in my etiquette. Sr Claude who must eat a lot judging from her ample
bosom produces a fruit cake that she viciously attacks with a pen knife. She
looks as if she is thriving on her mother hen image as she feeds her chicks. So
far I am still not complaining as I bask in her maternal aura. Mercifully the
food has dulled her powers of interrogation and she retreats behind her St
Martin magazine. I flick through Best and loose myself in the story of the woman
who had six husbands and murdered five of them . There is also a feature on a
before boob job and an after boob job. The girl, a seventeen year old was
distraught with the size of her 34 b bust. Her boyfriend offered to pay for the
augmentation. As if anyone would do that for me. Anyway with her new tits her
confidence has soared and sheís happy. Is it really that simple or is she
simple? I do not want to ponder on the craziness of her life as I could meander
into my own.

Mallow
produces a greater variety of passenger, some of which are good-looking and even
hunky. I think of my resolution but it does not apply to fantasy and thoughts.
Aha I spy what seems to be a rugby team. Tall, well proportioned and absolutely
fabulous. I shove in making a space for destiny. "Excuse me is this seat
taken?" The nuns look him up and down while I unhesitatingly say no. This
God- like creature is my insurance policy against their prying ways. It is a
well known fact that nuns glow in the presence of a male so thank you God for
delivering on time. After disposing of his luggage on the overhead rail he
slides in beside me. I mutter "Hiya " and he recriprocates with
"Hi" which sounds a lot better than my bog arab greeting.

I am painfully aware of him
invading my personal space. Iíve no room to move my legs or elbows and
suddenly I want to be able to stretch all over the place. I can smell his
maleness Ė the familiarity of it fills me with twixed fear and excitement. Am
I mid ovulation or what? I gaze at the hairs on his strong capable hands and I
want to touch and explore the spaces between his fingers and thumb. Iím trying
desperately not to stare so I try to concentrate on the wart at the end of Sr
Claudes nose. I will her to speak and true to form she begins.

"Are you coming from
Cork?" "Are you going to Dublin?" "Iím Sr Claude and this
is Sr St John and Ö."Anna" I say weakly. "Iím Jonathan."
He looks like a Jonathan, suave, sophisticated and a face to die for. Oh why are
the Gods taunting me? My hormones are razor sharp. Calm, breath in and out
slowly to the count of ten. There must be something mentally wrong with me if I
can consider having sex with a stranger. Hi weíve only just met but do you
fancy a shag? Perhaps deprivation is the first step to depravation. But lets
face it, hell must be being good all the time. Maybe its because I smell of the
train and its ancestral occupants that my resolve is weakening. Iím beginning
to think of what Iíll be missing. . No more sweet caresses as he talks the
knickers off me. I close my eyes and recall the rush of anticipation that would
course through my body. And now nothing, absolutely nothing lies between me and
this celibate abyss.

What will I do? How will I retrain
my thoughts to be pure and lofty. Itís no big deal I half-heartedly persuade
myself. I just think of the rewards that are within reach if I play my cards
right. I have so much to gain, respectability, nice girl image, catch of the
year of as a suitable wife. Lovely big house, two cars, 2.4 children . Hold onto
the vision Anna, otherwise how will it happen girl, how will it happen?